02-Feb-2004
Sons Of Saigon 1/??
Author: CleverYoungThief
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, violence, gore, psychological horror, situations in war, racial tension, drug use, and other controversial issues that involve the Vietnam War
Archive: GWA
Pairings: None as of yet, and probably none at all.
Genre: War/AU
Timeline: Late 1960's
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: I don't own any Gundam Wing character, as usual, and any other character I do own.
Feedback: Please?
Notes: 1) I'm still working on Requiem For The Sinners. 2) I'm still working on Requiem: Fall Of Innocence. 3) I'm still working on Last Resort. 4) I wrote this mainly because I've never seen a Vietnam fic for Gundam Wing, and I've always wanted to do one. I tried really hard to keep my facts straight in this fic, to maintain as much realism as possible. If they ever happen to stray, it's just a matter of me having overlooked something. (Either unintentionally, for which I apologize, or deliberately, for the purposes of artistic license.)
Thanks to: Arith (for checking out my Quatre), Sol (for poking me for Requiem and Fall throughout the writing process of Sons *laughs*) and especially Merith, who really helped spark my imagination in this fic, and will probably have a huge effect on plot, setting, etc...since this war was over way before I was born.
"I got a letter from L. B. J.
It said this is your lucky day.
It's time to put your khaki trousers on."
--- Tom Paxton, Lyndon Johnson Told The Nation
"If you're going to San Francisco
Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair
If you're going to San Francisco
You're gonna meet some gentle people there..."
--- Scott McKenzie, San Francisco
San Francisco, Haight-Ashbury, January 1968
"Good sense, innocence, cripplin' mankind... dead kings, many things I can't define... " Quatre whispered, eyes closed, hands against his ears, bobbing his head slightly to the beat. The sound of his mother sobbing and his father yelling underneath it all melted into the cadence of the song.
~~It isn't my fault!~~
~~Then you just fix it! You *fix* it!~
Hardly moving his body, he reached behind his head and turned the knob on the record player up, drowning out the sound of their battle downstairs.
But he couldn't drown out the sound of a glass shattering against the wall.
A shudder raced through him as he sat straight up on his bed, straining his ears to hear, not breathing. Now he could only hear his mother's sobs. His father was speaking softly again, which could be a good sign or a bad one, depending on how you wanted to look at it. Bad if his mother had passed out, or his father had finally broken down and slapped her.
Good if it meant the fight was over, in any case.
Finally coming to a decision, Quatre grabbed a cigarette from the pack on the beside table, clenching it in his teeth before he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. He walked over to the locked door of his bedroom, bare feet padding on the hardwood floor; he knew exactly where to walk to keep the boards from creaking. He held the knob with both hands as he unlocked it, so it wouldn't make too much noise when it clicked, and slowly slid the door open, sticking his head out into the hall.
Iria was sitting silently in the floor of her bedroom. Her hands were covering her face, and her shoulders were shaking.
He waved, trying to get her attention, but she wouldn't look up. ~Hey!~ he mouthed. Nothing.
His voice was a breathy whisper as he walked carefully over to his sister's bedroom, walking on the balls of his feet. He took the cigarette out of his mouth, sticking it behind his ear. "Hey. Can I come in?"
Iria looked up, startled, and Quatre scowled a little to see how red her eyes were. His older sister was beautiful, long graceful legs pulled up to her chest, bellbottoms almost completely covering her feet, the sleeves of her peasant blouse rumpled in a childlike way that made him want to hug her. She nodded silently.
Quatre closed the door behind him, then carefully walked around her and sat cross-legged on the floor at her side, rolling up his sleeves before pulling out his lighter. He sniffed deeply, smelling patchouli, then asked the question anyway, just to be sure. "May I smoke in here?"
She nodded again, not looking at him.
He lit a cigarette, then put the lighter back in his pocket, blowing grayish-blue smoke up at the ceiling fan. When he spoke again, his voice was soft. He tentatively put his hand on her shoulder, holding his cigarette in the other.
"It's okay, Irrie. I mean... they do this all the time. No reason to get upset over it, right? No tears."
He rubbed her back in small, comforting circles, putting a small smile on his face, even though he didn't feel like smiling. "You know how it goes. Same old story. Mom cries, Dad'll feel terrible, and they'll make up. Just like always."
She shook her head, still crying, and Quatre felt a shiver of dread pass through him. Iria usually climbed out the window when things got this bad, heading out to the cafes or to hang out with her friends. Like him, she usually just ignored them entirely. She was even better at blocking out reality than he was.
/Maybe it's finally gotten to be too much for her./
" ...Somebody die, Irrie?" He smiled still, swallowing hard, but it was fading fast. Even he couldn't ignore things forever, or pretend they weren't there. "Haven't seen you cry since that dog we had when I was six got hit by that Cadillac."
Suddenly, Iria took him in her arms, hugging him tightly; he could feel her bare breasts through her caftan. He held his cigarette up and away quickly, trying not to burn her with it, or get his ashes on her. From downstairs, he heard the sounds of fighting again, muffled through the bedroom door.
~~I'll scream if I want to, I'll tell Johnson himself ... Oh, damn you Anwar, he's just a little boy!... Let them hear, I don't care!~~
"Oh, Quatre... " Iria sniffled, burying her face against his hair, and Quatre felt that dread again, like ice. "I hate this... oh, Quatre, I hate this so much. Why does it have to be this way, it isn't fair at all!"
"What is it?"
She looked up at him, eyes red-rimmed, tears streaked down to her jaw from the corners of her eyes. " ...Your number's up."
Quatre jerked away from her, realization hitting him like a brick in the face. "You mean-"
She nodded, bursting into tears again, hugging him tightly, the colorful fabric of her caftan heaving with her sobs. Quatre just watched her, feeling numb horror sink into his bones and his heart like cold lead. He supposed, he thought absently, he would feel the same way if she told him he had cancer, and six months to live.
Malignant, so sorry, inoperable, nothing we can do. Sayonara, sucker.
/ ...I got the draw./ He shuddered, cold sweeping through him.
"It's okay, Quatre. It's okay... " Iria whispered, rocking him like a little kid, as if he had broken into tears, too. He just sat in her arms, chilled and silent. "I'm going to withdraw over at the college and get a job, and we'll just take care of it, okay? We'll just send you away. You don't have to worry at all."
Quatre pulled back gently and turned away, taking a deep draw on his cigarette. He held the smoke in for a few moments, then blew it out in a rush. He tried to think of something to say, and couldn't find the words.
/August 3rd. My birthday. I got short-strawed. What a damned mess./
He stood up, absently surprised when he found his legs could still carry him. Iria grabbed his pantsleg, looking up at him. She was still pretty, he noticed, even with her face flushed and puffy from crying.
"Where are you going? Quatre... "
/Going to fight a war./
"Need a walk."
/Need a prayer./
She started to say something else, but Quatre walked out, closing the door behind him. He went back to his own room, grabbed the pack of smokes from his bedside table, then walked downstairs, the sound of the fighting growing louder as he walked down the stairs, his steps as quiet as a cat.
/At least the war over there can't be any worse than the war here./
His parents were always at war; with money, with alcohol, with the crazy chaotic beauty of San Francisco. And the wars always began with a single shot, usually Jim Beam or brandy.
When Quatre walked through the hall, he cut his eyes into the kitchen, even though he didn't stop. His mother was sitting at the kitchen table, sobbing into her arms. The radio was sitting in the middle of the table, and his father was watching the little black- and-white TV on the corner of the counter. They were reshowing the draws.
"Son, I need to talk to you," he heard, but he had already walked past, making a break for the door. He felt, rather than heard or saw, his mother lift her head from the table.
"Quatre? Quatre!"
He opened the door and closed it behind him, heading down the hallway of the apartment building to the fire escape. He pushed it open and half-walked, half-ran down the stairway, heading into the alley and the road.
Quatre walked to the curb and collapsed there, his knees buckling under him. His elbows hit his knees with an audible snap, and his cigarette fell into the curb. He watched it smolder a little, then lifted his head, watching the streets.
Even though it was getting dark, Haight was crowded, panhandlers and musicians in every doorway, passersby walking back and forth, bellbottoms swishing above the cement. There were two men kissing at the corner, and a couple walking by him smiled. The woman flashed him a peace sign and a brilliant smile; he smiled back dutifully, not even feeling the expression on his face. She ruffled his hair as she walked past, and Quatre noticed the man she was walking with had his hand in her back pocket, groping her ass.
/Body bags show up though... even here./
" ...We just ignore them," he muttered, grabbing a fresh cigarette from his pack, lighting it.
"Quatre!"
Quatre's eyes picked thorough the crowds, looking for the sound of the warm, rich female voice calling him. Suddenly, he saw her.
Relena was running through the crowds on the sidewalks, picking her way with ease, completely and utterly unaware of the appreciative glances she was getting. There were hoop earrings through her ears large enough for Quatre to put his wrist through, and a bright red bandana was tied around her forehead. Her high ponytail wagged back and forth while she ran, and the sleeves of her peasant blouse fluttered in the cool twilight air.
Love beads bounced back and forth against her chest, tangling in the mandala hung around her neck, and there was a deep bruise at her brow, where a cop trying to break up a candle-lit protest rally had hit her in the face with a flashlight. Quatre thought it was like finding a flaw in an amethyst; it just made the jewel shine brighter. A daisy wobbled where it was tucked behind her ear, and more cut wildflowers were stuck into the band holding her hair back.
"Lover! Whew!" she called his nickname at him, laughing breathlessly as she stopped and sat down at his side. She ruffled his hair as well, like the strange woman had a few moments before. Quatre was used to it, and had decided his hair-soft, slightly wavy blond locks to the base of his neck-had a strange, puppy-like attraction for women. He didn't mind.
She ran her hand over the back of his neck and squeezed with an intimate, sisterly affection, warming his skin. He didn't meet her eyes, keeping his gaze on the streets.
/I'm scared,/ Quatre thought, gazing out at the crowds without seeing them.
/I'm fucking *terrified.*/
"What's happening, Quatre?" Relena said, her smile fading slightly. "You look hung up about something. Your folks fighting again, or you just in one of those moods you get? You need to lighten up, life's too short to mope."
Quatre shook his head, then took a deep drag on his cigarette before flicking it absently into the street. It spiraled like a dying comet before hitting the asphalt.
He looked out at the darkening street, marveling for the first time in a long time at the cluttered serenity of it all. He felt an icy, solid certainty that once he left Haight-Ashbury, this little pocket of strangeness and hurt and laughter and life, he'd never see it again.
She was silent beside him for a few moments, following his eyes across the people flowing through the Haight, then she sighed. "Quatre, dammit, what is it? You're starting to scare me a little."
Quatre looked up at her, and when he spoke, his voice was almost a whisper, flat with fear, anger, and resignation.
" ...I'm going to Vietnam."
End Part 1
(:./cyt/sons1)
